Part 8 (2/2)
”I'm glad you feel it in your bones,” said Bertie. ”Because my bones aren't the least bit certain about it.”
”Tsk, dear. You're too young to be so cynical. Turn a bit to your left.”
”Do you often feel things in your bones, Mrs. Edith?” Bertie wrapped her fingers around the scrimshaw and tried to ignore the jabbing of needles near her backside.
”All the time, dear. Theater people are a superst.i.tious lot, and my bones are quite reliable, I a.s.sure you.”
Bertie screwed her eyes shut and rubbed her thumb over the medallion.
Nate thought this would make a good luck charm. So let's see it do some magic.
”What do you think of our handiwork?” Peaseblossom demanded.
Bertie opened her eyes and confronted her reflection in the full-length mirror, which told her that the scrimshaw's luck had yet to have any influence in matters of fas.h.i.+on. ”I thought we were going for something professional.”
”It's pin-striped,” Peaseblossom said, weighted down by a long strand of pearls and an offended expression.
”Cla.s.sy!” added Moth.
”Like a lawyer going to court,” said Cobweb with a nod.
”I guess,” Bertie conceded. ”But it's still a corset. And the skirt?”
”It's a bit short, but it's the best we could do with so little notice.” Mrs. Edith tugged on the hem. ”It's more decent than the costumes for the musical numbers, at least. Face front, please, and raise your arms over your head.”
”Hold on.” Bertie pulled the scrimshaw out of the way and obeyed, instantly sorry when the Wardrobe Mistress tightened the strings on her bodice. ”Oooof!”
”The laces have stretched since you first put it on,” Mrs. Edith said.
”No problem. I wasn't using that oxygen.” Bertie thought of the almost-kiss she and Nate had shared in the corridor. He said I needed to change clothes, but I doubt this is what he had in mind.
”Stand up straight,” Mrs. Edith said. ”Shoulders back and tummy in.” She took the pearls from Peaseblossom and went to fasten them around Bertie's neck, encountering the scrimshaw hanging there already. ”What's this?”
”My good-luck charm from Nate.” When Mrs. Edith narrowed her eyes in scrutiny, Bertie amended, ”Well, not really from him. He got it in the Properties Department.”
Mrs. Edith sniffed her disapproval of both Nate and the scrimshaw's origins. ”Anything a Player wears belongs to Wardrobe.”
”What if it was an eye patch?” Moth asked.
”Wardrobe,” Mrs. Edith said.
”And what about a baldric?” Cobweb wrapped a bit of twine about his waist. ”For carrying a sword.”
”That's a kind of belt, so it's Wardrobe.”
”What about the actual sword?” Mustardseed said, his little eyes squinched up with concentration. ”If it's sheathed, it's being worn.”
”But if it's being used, it's a prop,” Peaseblossom said.
”Some items,” Mrs. Edith conceded, ”are subject to interpretation.” She nodded at the medallion. ”You should take it off, dear. It interrupts the flow of your ensemble.”
Bertie closed her hand over the scrimshaw. ”I prefer to keep it on. I'm superst.i.tious, too.”
”Since when?”
”Since I might be homeless.”
Mrs. Edith peered at Bertie over her spectacles. ”We shan't let that happen.”
Bertie sniffed heroically. ”No, we shan't.”
”That's right, my girl. Stiff upper lip.” Mrs. Edith made her final adjustments to Bertie's clothes and posture. ”Now, when you sit-”
Bertie put a hand to her waist. ”I don't think I'll be sitting in this thing.”
”Nonsense, of course you'll sit. Ease yourself into the chair and do your best to perch on the edge.”
”Perch. Right.” Bertie tugged at the front of the bodice and got her hands slapped for her trouble. ”Anything else?”
”Spectacles!” Cobweb handed her a pair of cat's-eye gla.s.ses set with twinkling rhinestones.
”They don't even have lenses in them!” Bertie poked her fingers through the empty holes in the rims and waggled them at her accomplices. ”Anything else?”
Mrs. Edith held up white gloves.
Bertie balked. ”No way. The gla.s.ses are bad enough.”
”You said the heels were bad enough!” said Mustardseed with a giggle.
”The heels were bad enough,” echoed Bertie. ”I wanted to look presentable, not like a Gal Friday.”
Mrs. Edith didn't say anything, but she looked a thousand sorts of awful.
Aware further protests would be useless, Bertie took the gloves and smoothed them on, one at a time. The corset prevented her from heaving a long-suffering sigh. ”When I swoon from lack of air, someone is going to have to cut me out of this thing.”
Mrs. Edith looked to Peaseblossom, the least irresponsible of the four. ”If she faints, cut her out from the back. Replacing the laces is simple, but if you slice through the boning, I will see that your wings are removed. With tweezers.”
All four fairies paled. ”Yes, ma'am!” they answered in one voice.
”Good. And as for you, my miss-”
Bertie pivoted on one heel and flashed her most mature, serene smile at the Wardrobe Mistress. ”Yes?”
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